


Little Moments

by quicksparrows



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-17 19:16:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5882389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quicksparrows/pseuds/quicksparrows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eight little moments between Henry and Evie; there have never been two people more slow to realize how much they enjoy each others' company.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Moments

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote a lot of Syndicate stuff back in November but never finished any of it. As I'll probably never get back to it, might as well post something from it :)

.

 

 

 

                Evie looks at him with bright eyes and a tight smile. She has a girlishness about her that Henry finds curious — an eagerness to be liked, a romantic approach to scholarship and history. 

                "I'm going to a symposium," Evie says, "I'd hoped you'd join me."

                "Of course," Henry says. Is he replying much too fast? "I'd like that very much."

                "I haven't even told you the topic yet," Evie says, with a little touch of an earnest smile, as if afraid he might rescind  if she points out his haste, but duty-bound to be honest with him anyway. 

                "Well, our interests overlap such that I imagine I would enjoy it regardless," Henry says. He pauses and she just smiles at him. "That isn't too bold, I hope."

                "No, no," she says. "I would very much enjoy your company, Mr. Green."

 

* * *

 

                Her upbringing has given her a profoundly English resolve and stalwart courage, and yet left her seemingly uncomfortable in her own skin sometimes: in the small towns outside the city, her nature is permissible, aberrance a luxury for a well-respected young woman who happens to trounce about in trousers and a long coat. In the city, where she is undoubtedly of low class, her trousers make her a beacon for gawkers and the stern disapproval of the people. She doesn't fit amongst women, certainly, but the tailored busts of her clothing and ribboned and ruffled trim makes no effort to fit her amongst men.

                He wonders, sometimes, if people stare.

                "Oh, yes," she says, when he finds the right time to ask. "They sometimes comment, too."

                "What does Jacob do, when that happens?" Henry asks, curious.

                Evie almost laughs, her brows flying up and her mouth opening in a silent 'o'.

                "Jacob makes more of a fool of me than they do!" she says. "He mimics their reactions, exaggerating every one. Shouting, crying — Miss Frye, how could you? Miss Frye, are those trousers?! Miss Frye, you bring shame on your family in being so bold! Everyone, look upon Miss Frye!"

                Henry almost laughs, dropping his face in embarrassment.

                "That does sound quite terrible," he says.

                "Tiring, too," Evie says, "after the hundredth performance."

                "Hmm," Henry hums. "I know quite well what it feels like to be stared at, and yet I've never had someone following me around making light of it."

                "It's not all bad," Evie admits. "He makes a fool of me, but he makes a fool of them, too."

 

* * *

 

                Evie sits, and so does Henry, and his elbow brushes hers. She glances at him and he tucks his arms in swiftly only to find her smiling at him again.

                "Apologies," he says.

                "For what?" she says.

                "Ah," he says. "I thought I'd brushed you."

                Not very appropriate conduct for the stuffy English, that, but he seems more aware of it than Evie, who has a little spark in her green eyes.

                "You did," she says.

                Before he can reply, the theater crowd starts whooping, and what leaves his lips is lost to the noise. 

 

* * *

 

                Henry's stomach sinks when he hears a Rook say: "That Jacob is such an idiot sometimes." 

                Evie's eyes narrow, all trace of girlishness gone from her features. 

                "Who did you say is an idiot?" she asks.

                The Rook seems to have lost his tongue. He stumbles wildly, hands up in easy defense. When he doesn't give her the answer she already knows, she draws herself up a little taller.

                "Calling Jacob Frye an idiot," she says, in no uncertain terms, "is a privilege afforded only to those who shared a womb with him."

                There's no response. Why would there be? Henry feels an itch at the back at his throat, the urge to speak up in case Evie takes a step further, but she doesn't. The young Rook drops his eyes immediately, and he mumbles something to the effect of: "Yes, Miss Frye. Begging your pardon, Miss Frye."

                "Remember who you owe your allegiances to, for the liberation of your city," Evie says, and she turns her back on him to look at Henry, who looks back at her dubiously.

                "My," he says. "Miss Frye, you certainly tolerate no disrespect."

                Evie steps up into the carriage, and Henry follows.

                "If I did, the Rooks would devour themselves," she says.

                Henry pauses.

                "Does such a thing make you happy?" he asks.

                Evie doesn't reply for a moment.

                "What thing?"

                "I had thought the Rooks would be a call to arms for the Brotherhood, not the creation of a militia," he says.

                Evie just shakes her head and ignores him tersely.

                Henry wonders where the line between the Rooks and the Assassins lies.

 

* * *

 

                Jacob looks a little foppish these days, Henry thinks; he may prefer the dress of his own people, but he still knows English fashion well enough to spot a misstep. But where Evie is scandalously trousered, Jacob is just wild: oversized lapels, overstuffed shoulders, that outlandish top hat. Henry hasn't felt a single gawking look since the twins leapt into his care.

                "Are you judging Jacob's clothes?" Evie asks, keen as always, and Henry laughs.

                "Oh, no," he says quickly. "I'm merely observing."

                "Oh, you should judge," Evie says, wryly. "I don't know if I miss the grubby coats and peeling shoes when the alternative is this clownish look."

                "What prompts a man such as Jacob to suddenly care about fashion?" Henry asks.

                "Jacob can hear every word you are saying," Jacob says, turning to look at them. He's a little smug, but that's hardly unexpected in Jacob. "Looks good, though, doesn't it?"

                "It's..." Henry trails and looks to Evie, who looks midway between amused and disapproval. "It's quite different, Jacob."

                Jacob just laughs, even when Evie flicks that ridiculous hat off of his head.

 

* * *

 

                "Don't we make an odd pair," Evie says. "An Indian and an Englishwoman at a lecture!"

                "If it gets to be too much," Henry says with a little smile, "I have some smoke bombs in my satchel. We could make a quick exit."

                Evie smiles, and Henry delights in the crinkle of her nose and the fullness of her cheeks as she does. 

 

* * *

 

                She approaches and Henry whistles. The Templar turns, slowly, unconcerned.

                Evie turns the cane over her hand, reversing it to be held blade up, and then she draws her hand back so hard and fast that Henry hardly hears the blade sickle through flesh. The Templar doesn't seem to hear it either — in fact, his expression seems only faintly surprised even as his collar and front blossom red and wet. Then it dawns on him, a second before he falls: his throat is opened like a pig to be bled out.

                Evie draws the flat of her blade against the inner leg of her trouser, despite no blood having collected on the steel, and then she sheaths it.

                "Impressive," Henry says, though he feels that old tickle of discomfort. A man is dead at their feet, or at least as good as dead — he'll bleed out from the jugular before he can asphyxiate.

                Evie doesn't respond to that. Instead, she says: "We had best move along."

                "Yes, Miss Frye," he responds.

                But he can't help but look back at the body she so deftly steps over and wonder how different they are.

 

* * *

 

                Evie reaches behind her to tug the ties of her stays loose, and slowly the cording slips enough through the eyelets enough that she can unhook the busk in the front. Henry swallows hard. Evie is flushed but her fingers are nimble -- the stays come open and her breasts are scarcely hidden by the loose neckline of her chemise. When he reaches for her waist, his hands ghost over her lean figure. He feels her shiver, but she leans into that touch like he's magnetic.

                They both hesitate, mutually, nervously. _Has Evie ever been nervous?_ Henry wonders. He's not sure he's even seen her this way, or that he's ever allowed himself to be nervous with her, either.

                "I've never," she admits, trailing.

                "That's okay," Henry says. He can't help but smile. "Finally, something we're truly on even footing for!"

                Evie lowers her eyes for an instant, cheeks growing pink, and she laughs -- actually laughs. 

                "Very true," she says, and she kisses him sweetly.

 


End file.
